


Ill at These Numbers

by WednesdaysDaughter



Series: Borrowed Words [1]
Category: Doctor Who, Doctor Who & Related Fandoms, Doctor Who (2005)
Genre: F/M, Fluff and Angst, Mutual Pining, Near Death Experiences, Poisoning, References to Shakespeare, Self-Indulgent, Tenderness
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-04
Updated: 2019-07-04
Packaged: 2020-06-09 15:09:17
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,652
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19478452
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WednesdaysDaughter/pseuds/WednesdaysDaughter
Summary: “Thine evermore,” the Doctor hisses before the liquid slides down his parched throat, “most dear lady whilst this machine is to him.”Rose’s chuckle is wet with tears that cling to her lashes and her reply is lost to him when darkness replaces her angelic countenance. His fevered visions come and go without rhyme or reason. Addled romance trickles from cracked lips, bringing his conscious forth through flashes of pink and yellow.





	Ill at These Numbers

**Author's Note:**

> I am on fire. I cannot recall the last time I felt this inspired & productive. It won't last of course, but it's still nice to be able to write with desire.

The moment her eyes fell upon the gown hanging on the back of her door, Rose knew she was in for a long night.

The strapless bodice sparkled beneath the TARDIS’s warm lights, her fingers running carefully over the ruffled skirt that flowed like water under her touch. The color reminded her of champagne, smooth and heady if heavily indulged in, but it fit her body like a second skin. Delighted, and emboldened, Rose could feel the attention in the room shift to her as she descended into the grand ballroom.

Golden ringlets escaped her coiled bun with purpose, reaching down to kiss her shoulders as others watched with envy. At one point while they were approaching the throne, her wrap slipped out of her elbow’s hold and trailed behind like a wedding train. Before an eager Earl could seize his chance, the Doctor – refusing to break contact – turned and carefully wrapped the silk around Rose’s bare arm twice so as to avoid a second incident.

Goosebumps race from his fingertips down her spine adding a lovely color to her already painted cheeks. The Doctor’s reply – a slow curl of his lips – is ignored by those who are struck by Rose’s besotted gaze.

The room held its breath at the sight of Rose’s pleased smile which rivaled the dazzling constellations seen on the veranda. Those closest to the pair strain their ears to hear what they assume is a dreadfully clever statement if Rose’s laugh is anything to go by. Her pink tongue causes quite the stir among those bonded and unattached when it peaks through her shiny lips.

Only a fool would attempt to separate her from the Doctor on such an auspicious night.

\- - - - - - - - - -

**48 Hours Earlier**

“Here we are Rose Tyler!”

Rose’s gasp of awe fueled the Doctor’s manic grin as he pulled her down the hill and towards the sprawling capital below. Overgrown willows parted with the cool breeze, weeping branches taking their turn at playing with Rose’s hair as she ran. The grass grazed her shins leaving behind traces of chilled dew which glittered when touched by the second sun’s light. Rose didn’t know where to look first, overtaking the Doctor and nearly running in front of a speeding carriage pulled by a creature that passed too quickly for her to study.

“Careful now!” he exclaims, pulling her out of harm’s way – refusing to let go of her hip until she’s caught her breath.

“What was that thing?”

Brushing off her near dalliance with disaster, Rose turned and grinned at the glassy expression on the Doctor’s face. She could feel his eyes roam over her flushed cheeks and down her body, pretending to check for injuries though he lingered too long on her lips for Rose to resist teasing him a bit.

“Creature got your tongue?”

“Feeling cheeky today Miss Tyler?” he eventually replied, playing their game with grace and a bit of mischief.

“Always.”

Her wink sent his hearts pounding, but he pushed the reaction aside and guided Rose through the crowded streets of Bulderii. The burgeoning market captivated the majority of Rose’s attention and eventually the Doctor relented, letting her drag him from stall to stall until her curiosity was bested by hunger.

The pastries melted on her tongue, sweet honey coating her lips and drawing the Doctor’s gaze no matter how hard he fought the urge to stare. He distracts with a long-winded retelling of the planet’s bloody history that is curtailed by the crowing of a wise and just monarch. Rose asks all the right questions and finds herself on edge in spite of the Doctor’s assurances they’ve missed the radical times.

“If my memory serves, we’ve landed in the middle of Queen Purchelix’s reign.”

“And if you’re wrong?” Rose inquires when a small group of armed militants pass the café, glaring at anyone brave enough to make eye contact.

“Well, it’s possible we’ve landed just before the coronation which means the civil unrest produces an unsuccessful coup.”

How Rose manages to convey such emotion with the roll of her eyes the Doctor will never understand, but three minutes later when a bomb goes off on the other side of the fountain he will concede that her unspoken point bares weight.

“Why does the coup fail?” Rose asks after he’s rolled off her body and pulled her away from the panicked crowd. He cups her face in both hands, thumbs rubbing the dirt gently away from her abraded chin. She does not flinch beneath his intense stare, choosing instead to lean into his touch, her hands reaching out to grip his dusty jacket.

“Two upstarts join the royal guard,” the Doctor grins.

Rose’s laugh follows them down the narrow alleyways until they’re safe within the palace’s impenetrable walls and kneeling before the soon-to-be Queen.

\- - - - - - - - - -

**17 Hours Earlier**

“Remind me again why I let you talk me into these things?”

Rose resisted the urge to scratch her scalp where the heavy crown tangled and pulled at her poor hair. The royal garments weighed more than expected; gems of all kinds decorated the long train that followed her unhurried gait. Thankfully the veil was opaque enough to hide her face from the crowd which lacked the Bulderiian blue hue the natives bore.

Decked in the ceremonial armor of the guard, the Doctor matched her step for step, barely tilting his head in the confining helmet to reply.

“You’ll recall that I was against this idea from the start,” he muttered darkly.

“You’re too tall to pass as her majesty,” Rose hissed not wanting to get into another debate while the weight of a hundred eyes watched her every move.

The Doctor snorts and their conversation is cut short by a series of drums signaling their arrival to the court. Scepter in hand, Rose straightens and refuses the hand he offers to assist her down the stairwell. Everything hedges on the rebels who’ve infiltrated the castle believing she is the Queen. The tension radiating off the Doctor make her stomach churn; fighting with him especially when on wrong move could send her to the infirmary, was not something Rose particularly enjoyed.

Focusing on ways she could make it up to him, Rose stares straight ahead as the click of her heels against white marble fills the room. Murmurs follow her past rows of nobility and she’s too busy trying not to fall to pay attention to the TARDIS’s translations. They sound appreciative, so maybe the attack won’t happen. The second her mind has the audacity to think such a thought the lights die and the sound of unsheathed swords overtake the crowd’s fearful gasps.

‘ _At least it’s not guns_ ,’ Rose muses to herself, though she’s not certain being stabbed would feel much better.

“Death to the crown!” someone shouts from Rose’s left and it is pure luck that she manages to turn in time to avoid being skewered.

Rose curls around herself, swiping her left leg out in time to trip her would-be attacker. He stumbles to the ground and Rose wastes no time in grabbing his sword. The Doctor suddenly wraps an arm around her waist and pulls her into a circle of guards who make swift work of the rebels. Rose blinks against the harsh light once the Doctor sonic’s them back and is grateful when the Doctor turns her into his chest to avoid the sight of emerald blood splashed against the pristine marble.

His hearts pound beneath her ear and she runs her free hand up and down his back until they’re given the all-clear.

The Bishop rushes to her side, but Rose lifts the veil and the room echoes with surprise when they realize what has occurred. Relieved of her weapon she thanks Napolir, the Captain of the Queen’s Guard and bends down to pick up the royal scepter.

“Your majesty,” she inclines her head and sighs in relief when the disguised Purchelix removes the crown from her sore head.

“My lady,” the Queen bows in return before allowing the Bishop to deck her with the ceremonial apparel. Rose and the Doctor work in tandem to remove the cape until it’s perched upon the rightful shoulders. Once settled, they take their places at the bottom of the dais at watch the coronation unfold without further incident. Still shocked by the turn of events, the nobility is subdued with their celebrations until the announcement of a ball.

“Tonight we’ll honor these brave individuals who risked their lives to see balance restored to our great nation.”

The applause follows them back to the TARDIS where Rose carefully nudges the Doctor to the wardrobe.

“Nothing good ever happens when I wear a suit,” he whines, but continues his journey down the hall when Rose bats her eyelashes playfully before disappearing into her room to freshen up. Shaking his head the Doctor grabs the garment bag his ship happily provides.

“Alright, but when we’re chased from the palace for a breach of etiquette I get to say ‘I told you so.’”

\- - - - - - - - - -

**Present Time**

It took Rose longer than it should have to notice something was off.

Every bit the Doctor’s equal, Rose always knew where she stood when it came to their heroics. Sure there were some societies who credited him with the majority of their success – male ego spanning across all time and space no matter where they went. However the Doctor was always quick to sing Rose’s praises to anyone dumb enough to slight her.

Tonight found their roles reversed; many choosing to comment on Rose’s bravery in the face of peril. Individuals of various political standing took their sweet time questioning her and crowing at her deft agility in such cumbersome circumstances.

The attention was dizzying and if she ignored a handful of leers that she normally would’ve shut down without hesitation well, that was between herself and the TARDIS who provided the evening wear.

The Doctor beamed at the admiration the gala showed Rose – knowing full well how difficult it was for her sometimes. She rarely left his arm, choosing her dancing partners with great care so as to not insult anyone and to avoid ruffling his feathers. While he didn’t like being parted from her, his eyes followed her across the dance floor taking in every potential threat.

The first time someone’s hands wandered lower than he was comfortable with the Doctor slid in with a glass of local refreshments before spiriting Rose away to the outskirts of the crowd. The relief on her face cooled his irritation until a Duchess asked for her own waltz with Rose. This went on for a while longer, the Doctor pacing the room to speak with the guards about this and that. The rebellion may have been squashed but both he and the Captain were not strangers to stragglers too proud to admit defeat. 

It hits him after the third glass of wine.

He looks up in time to see Rose spin in search of him. Their eyes lock and he collapses before she can speak.

Poison.

The guards rush to his side, but Rose is quicker – her shawl left in the middle of the tittering assembly who haven’t noticed the change in atmosphere. He can hear the booming declaration of the Queen, ordering the music to halt while others move to secure the doors.

Rose rolls him over, head trapped between her hands in her lap. She’s upside-down and beautiful, brow creased with worry he can feel brushing against his mind. Even someone without telepathic abilities could sense her broadcasted emotions.

“Doctor, what is it? What’s wrong?”

He cannot find the words to explain, cannot fight the hurricane pounding in his chest with a bass stronger than the ceremonial drums. Struggling to piece a sentence together his internal alarms blast all sense from his lips and he is very afraid.

“Doubt thou the stars are fire,” he mumbles softly through heavy breaths and the Queen’s call for silence. He shakes in Rose’s hold and when she sees the broken glass by the pillar he’d been leaning against frightful gold flashes in her eyes.

“Doubt that the sun doth move.”

It feels like regeneration; his cells are beginning to decay and mutate into a different man. He feels as if fire has replaced his blood, but the only glow he sees is Rose. He should’ve told her sooner – she’s going to be so mad at him.

“Doubt truth to be a liar.”

Agony races up his spine and he seizes as one heart stops; Rose’s voice raising above the clamor in his mind long enough that her agony eclipses his own.

“No please, please don’t go Doctor.”

His vision dulls and suddenly he’s being pulled upwards and into Rose’s arms. His lips ghost over her neck, tongue darting out to taste the anxiety in her sweat. He turns in time to see the Queen fall to her knees, pressing a vial into Rose’s shaking hands. Tilting his head back, Rose uncorks the vial with her mouth – spitting the stopper somewhere over her shoulder.

“Thine evermore,” the Doctor hisses before the liquid slides down his parched throat, “most dear lady whilst this machine is to him.”

Rose’s chuckle is wet with tears that cling to her lashes and her reply is lost to him when darkness replaces her angelic countenance. His fevered visions come and go without rhyme or reason. Addled romance trickles from cracked lips, bringing his consciousness forth through flashes of pink and yellow.

With the help of Napolir, Rose gets him back to the TARDIS. She does not stay to see justice carried out; hoping that the Doctor’s fond recollection of the planet’s golden age is not undone in their name. While not the first time, and most certainly not the last, Rose fights her fevered blush as she undresses him. She ignores the TARDIS’s melodic teasing in favor of making enough tea to keep him hydrated. 

She hums through his lucidity, hushing his breathless confessions made in fear though the poison is long past its lethality. Time keeps her company as they float in the vortex, time and a battered volume of sonnets given so Rose could follow along.

“It is an ever-fixed mark that looks on tempests and is never shaken.”

Rose wonders how much he will remember once the fever breaks. It cannot be coincidence that plucks his tongue in tune with words meant to seduce. More of a Jane Austen fan herself, Rose admits she’s developed a fondness for Shakespeare if only spoken by her Doctor. She kips at his bedside, her own dreams often interrupted by his unconscious admission with words not his own.

After what Rose considers to be the third “night" she awakes to the cool touch of the Doctor’s fingers along her chin. The clouded glaze speaks to illness' hold on him though there is a familiar intelligence in the way he studies her.

“Love’s not Time’s fool, though rosy lips and cheeks. Within his bending sickle’s compass come; Love alters not with his brief hours and weeks, but bears it out even to the edge of doom.”

Exhaling softly, heart tender to the touch, Rose takes his hand in hers. Their fingers lace together like two pieces of a puzzle crafted for one purpose – to tell a love story grand. Even under poison’s sway he needed her to know more, but not too much. These words were fine and all, but she wanted a composition without coercion or fear of death. His eyes soften in apology and Rose runs her fingers though his hair with a free hand, silently urging him back into slumber’s embrace.

Finishing the sonnet with affection most severe, Rose’s voice hangs in the air; a sweet incense promising fruition sooner rather than later.

“If this be error and upon me prov’d, I never writ nor no man ever lov’d.”

**Author's Note:**

> Y'all can blame David Tennant for this nonsense. I never should've watched Hamlet; honestly what was I thinking? Hope this entertained - I have 3 more of these planned.


End file.
